Sand and Sacrifice
by misscake001
Summary: Sherlock gets out of his depth with a case and has to be placed in protection. However, all is not what it seems and John won't be left behind. My usual brand of angsty slash.Happy Times! Final Chapter up.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing. I don't own these characters; it would be bad for my mental health if I did.

Hi. This is a teaser for a new multi-chaptered story I'm writing. I will keep going as long as there is interest so please read and review as we go; It really helps me. It doesn't follow on from my previous story 'This Changes Everything' but please give that a read anyway.

Jess x

Sand and Sacrifice

Chapter 1

I have this dream sometimes. I open my eyes and the sun blazes a trail across my face like it did that red letter day in Afghanistan. Only the sand underneath me is different and I do not mind that the warm sea laps at my legs getting my trousers wet. In fact I do not seem to mind anything at all. He is there of course and for a moment obscures the sun above, allowing me to see his face in detail. I become aware of his hands across my heart and then he lifts my shoulders pulling me into his shirt and burying his face in my neck. I do not seem surprised at this uncharacteristic behavior and I always wake when he begins to plead something from me. I cannot imagine what it is as I seem happy to be lying in his tight grasp, his eyes so bright and very much alive. Does he not realise that there is nothing he need ask of me? I'd die for this man. I've killed for him after all.


	2. Sand and Sacrifice Chapter 2

**Hi. Thanks for reading****,**** please read and review as always, it really helps. X**

**Chapter 2**

I wake with a start as the truck hits something hard in the road and it takes a while for my eyes to acclimatize to the harsh sunlight pouring through the dusty windscreen of the pickup. We have been on this so-called road headed east for approximately two hours now and the jungle-like undergrowth is becoming more and more impenetrable, and with it my mood. How did Sherlock get himself so caught up in this? How could he be so careless with himself? With us, whatever 'us' may be.

I steal another look at my driver taking in his appearance. The dirty cap and sunglasses mask an air of formality and I contemplate trying to engage him in conversation again. I am not even sure he speaks English and so decide on its futility. I recognise someone following 'orders' when I see them and these ones clearly do not involve making me aware of our destination. They do however; involve him carrying a Colt pistol he believes is tucked out of sight.

From the time it took the small plane to reach our final destination, my guess is that I am in South America; remote Brazil specifically. Somewhere a person can be hidden or more likely allow themselves to get very, very lost. Mycroft had ensured that I did not pass through any major airports or borders, changing vehicles under the careful gaze of 'officials', which was a bonus seeing as I had packed like a solider. It was a habit hard to relinquish and I had not even tried to conceal the hand gun in my pocket. No one was about to halt my journey after Mycroft had knocked on the door of our flat to fill me in on the details that Sherlock had neglected to mention. I was focused. I was ready. Something Sherlock obviously had not counted upon.

Sherlock's induction into the world of espionage had been at the hand of Mycroft. He of course never got his own hands dirty and had come to Sherlock with a manhunt disguised as a puzzle. Dangling it on a string in front of him, it's obvious danger masked by a dazzling challenge. Of course Sherlock had wavered then bitten after initial protests. Mycroft had promised full support and any avenues and services at his disposal normally off limits to his brother and had weaved his web of intrigue and self-indulgent counter intelligence like a dance. "It seems you've turned a few heads at the Agency Sherlock, why not show them what can be done in a short space of time? Of course if you think it's out of your league..."

The British Government had recently rekindled its mask of friendship with the Russians and it became apparent that a rogue agent was 'cleaning up'. There was a disk; a disk of names that these individuals would kill to get their hands upon. Kill in order to return to Russian soil and we realised soon enough that it left a trail of bodies in its wake. Mycroft's agency wanted to protect the names on that disk.

Since I had ceased my previous occupation, I had become tired of games masked as politics. They were the long-lasting dangerous parts of war and I had watched my fair share of men sacrificed for the 'Greater Good'. Despite this, I of course made it clear I was at Sherlock's disposal. This was more my area than his after all and he needed watching.

"I'm just asking you to be mindful of exactly what you are getting into"- I had said to him taking a step closer and brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. Things had begun to change within us as well as around us. There had been what I referred to as 'incidents'; a brush of an electric touch here, a lingering gaze upon a robed body there. It was obvious to me the effect that I had on him and indeed that he had upon myself. Since the 'pool affair', it was as if he had realised the element of fallibility that lay within our partnership despite its strength and there had been an uncomfortable silence when we had reached home. His eyes bored into me as I stood at the kettle. "I need you to know John. You are….important to me."

A few days prior to Mycroft's proposal I had literally dragged Sherlock from the sofa and out to dinner. He was in 'between-case' paralysis and needed reintegrating into society- as I had begun to see it. I was becoming used to my sense of responsibility in these phases and I wonder to this day who had cared for him in this silent fashion before me. I knew deep down there had been no one and it made my insides tighten.

"Fine"- he says briskly, reaching up for my outstretched hand. "But I am choosing where we eat. You, John Watson have terrible taste in eating establishments." I smiled, pulling him up with such force that we nearly topple backwards.

Once out of the flat he became far more talkative than I usually found him during these hiatuses. However, this was probably down to the fact that we had managed to quite successfully polish off two bottles of Chateau Lafite in one hour and Sherlock was gesturing to the waiter for our third.

I leant across the table downing my fork due to a sudden wave of self-inflicted nausea. "By the way Sherlock, how exactly are we planning on paying for this? Because we only just made the rent last month." I trying not to sound inebriated and fail miserably judging by Sherlock's gleeful expression.

He takes out his wallet as I struggle to concentrate on his words and not the sound of caramel emanating from his lips. "Did you know John, that the Chateau Lafite is dubbed the 'King's Wine'? In the 18th Century it was prescribed as a 'tonic' to an unhealthy French politician who then frequently became rather, shall we say 'overindulged' in Court. He sent crates of it to King Louis XV to ease his career path."

"Is that… Mycroft's credit card? Sherlock!"

"The irony will not be lost on him, believe me." He took a second then leaned in across the table, focusing on me in amusement. "You can't hold your drink Dr. Watson, very unlike an Army man"- he slurred. He then promptly knocked his wine across the pure white table cloth. We snigger like children, causing heads to turn. "Come John. Otherwise no amount of credit will persuade a cabby to drive us home."

We fall in the door and it takes us an age to reach the top of the stairs. I make a mental note that three bottles is clearly our limit as I watch Sherlock trying to get his coat off and walk at the same time. This proves too much and he trips over his own shoes. My reflexes are good despite feeling horrendously 'overindulged' as Sherlock referred to it and we hit the kitchen floor in a fit of giggles. There is a moment to catch our breath, then I roll on to my back trying to hush Sherlock's laughing with a hand outstretched into soft curls. We have probably woken Mrs. Hudson.

For the moment there is only the sound of our combined breathing then I feel him move out of my grasp, shifting above me placing hands on the floor aside my head. My brain spins as he looks at me with intrigue, the hint of our earlier amusement still present upon his face. I go to sit up upon my elbows but a hand stops me and a sweet liquor-fueled voice seeps in through my ear; washing over my very being. My heart bangs so hard I fear it may jump out of my throat and onto the kitchen floor. _That would not be good_. I suddenly feel I have earned the right to take control of this and I push him from me and grip him tightly as I reverse our stances, pressing my body weight upon him. There is an incredible heat and tingling as I go to lower myself onto pale lips and exposed ivory chest.

We hear a familiar voice and the door handle goes.

"Woo-hoo, Boy's. I heard you come in and I'd made far too much Cocoa so… oh sorry Dears." Mrs. Hudson with her fantastic timing watches me stumble to my feet followed by a prompt sprint to the bathroom. Game over. It wasn't discussed the next morning, nor the one after that. Gone.

For the first week of the 'hunt' I did not let him out of my sight and I could tell he was glad of it despite his focused 'thrill of the chase' demeanor. We had traced the path of the disk and were almost ready to pounce when something in the air transformed. Sherlock became distant and eventually shut me off entirely, returning only to pick up a change of clothes. He ignored my text messages and phone calls and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

I called Mycroft only to be informed that Sherlock had completed the task and that the disk had been handed to the correct individuals. It was heavily encrypted as expected and would take a week or so to decode. We were no longer required. He had been successful.

Sherlock did not return home.

Two days later I calmly made an appointment with 'Anthea' and walked into Mycroft's office with my pistol in hand.

"I don't trust this. Where is he?" -I say quietly looming over the desk, hands flat on the surface knocking papers to the floor. Mycroft was clearly expecting this and to his credit he did his best not to look perturbed. That day I let him talk me into a darkness I didn't know existed for me.

"He's gone John. You know what he is like. He asked me to arrange for him to leave for a while". He reads the face I try not to expose. " Sherlock doesn't get attached to people John. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

"Just tell me he's okay. Just tell me that you at least have contact with him." _This can't be happening._

He pauses for a long while. "I have contact. Go be a Doctor, Dr. Watson. Leave my brother to himself. It is for the best."

I spend the next week searching for a scribbled note of explanation, a complex code for me to crack, anything that would tell me that he was fine and that he was coming back eventually. But the texts did not come and mine were left unanswered. I sink in to my new darkness. _So this is what it's like to be left behind by Sherlock Holmes, to be grown tired of._

Obviously Sherlock wasn't the only Holmes brother with a talent for the stage. At five thirty one morning I have a visitor. Mycroft sits with his umbrella, an uncomfortable expression on his face as if he was nursing a troublesome tooth or gravely regretting a decision made weeks ago.

"Where is he?" I say through gritted teeth, knowing that I am right to dread what is coming next.

He swallows hard and looks me in the eye. "A safe-house. A very nice, very expensive safe house. He begged me to get him out of the country and gave explicit orders that you were not to follow. We use it for Agent status recuperation, I was able to pull a few strings. I was to ask no questions."

"What?" I say in disbelief. " Like in James Bond novel?."

He snorts loudly. " If that helps you John."

"I want to speak to him." I stand up and start pacing.

I hear a trace of guilt. "I have been informed that my brother is not coping all that well with his 'isolation'. I'm told he will not eat and that he has been quite unwell. I am beginning to regret my decision in not informing you of this earlier."

"Really? Are you?" - my words dripping with angry sarcasm. "You are taking me out there right now."- I shout_. I don't believe this_.

"John, there's one more thing. We believe that the Russian case wasn't quite as tied up as we had thought."

That was twelve hours ago.

The sun is beginning to set in my new surroundings and from out of nowhere we veer from the dirt track heading straight through bushes to the right. It takes me a few seconds to register the sheer drop over the cliff plunging down to the golden sands below. The car stops with a halt and my driver points through the trees ahead.

"You walk now." He says. _Brilliant!_

As I hurriedly trek through the stifling heat with an army sack upon my back, I beat back the undergrowth trying to keep a straight path. My guess was to head upwards towards the steep peak I could see in the distance. It was an ideal place to hide a safe house; good visibility of the coast line in all directions in conjunction with excellent concealment. I beat back the anxiety of seeing him. _God, what am I going to find_.

My thoughts are banished as I hear the rustle of undergrowth to my left and before I can reach for my own weapon, I feel the cold hard pressure of a gun held to my head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning for use of profanities in this chapter! **

**Thanks for reading and please review. I will keep going if you lovely guys respond well and want me to keep going. Rating may change.**

**J x**

**Chapter 3**

I leave the weapon in my pocket and place both hands obligingly above my head.

_Come on John__,__ you know the drill; n__o sudden movements_.

From the corner of my vision I see the young face of a boy of around eighteen years old and realise that there is no point in plotting my next move; I can read him like I read the others. He will not be shooting me today. Before I get the chance to speak, the bushes part again this time disturbing the tall, flat leaves above me allowing the sun to stab my eyes. I hear his beautiful low hummingbird voice before I see him.

"That will do Gabriel, Thank you. This man is no threat".

The gun leaves my head and I try to shield my eyes so that I can see the man who belongs to the voice I have been awaiting for weeks. A familiar grasp comes out of nowhere and pulls me forward into the shade.

"John."

I recognise a hundred different emotions in his eyes that second, where many would choose to see none and the slight flicker of relief is the one I hold tight to. I choose to discard the showmanship sound of frustration and anger portrayed in his voice. I keep his gaze for a few seconds, fully intending on telling him that I have missed him and that I could not believe that he had left me behind. But he turns briskly like an animal disturbed in the wild and I follow silently holding my questions tentatively in my pocket along with my gun as he marches on ahead. _Nothing changes_.

Leaving the protection of the undergrowth I find myself at the rear of an immense white villa; beautifully and precariously perched upon the cliff above. Ornate flowers, ivies and fruit trees surround its balconies and windows making it almost impossible to see from the undergrowth and giving it an air of mystery. It feels like something out of a children's book that Harry would have read to me when we were younger. From what I could see of it I was already in love with the place, despite its current use.

We pass an old woman kneeling in a small garden who is picking vegetables. She nods to me in acknowledgment, then goes back about her business unfazed by my presence. I follow Sherlock up gleaming white steps and through a wooden door into a vast galley, stocked with everything one could ask from a kitchen. I fear this will have been wasted on him and a second stab of anxiety hits me spurring my pace. He passes through it silently, ignoring a young girl peeling fruit and slides up an ornate marble staircase.

"Sherlock!" I call to him. No reply.

I stop when we hit the top; finding myself in a lavish hallway with antique looking furniture and golden mirrors holding back the walls. Flowers and statues add to the air off elegance, making it feel as though I have stumbled into a palace of sorts_. So this is where my tax money goes_. He heads down a corridor to our left and I hurry to catch him up as he disappears through a solid oak doorway leaving me to jump at the presence of an older, mustachio Brazilian man sat in a chair cleaning a rifle with a knife and cloth.

"Sherlock will you stop!"

When I find the room into which he has been swallowed, I am treated to what I always feared would be a physical representation of Sherlock's mind during his darkness. I can just make out that I am stood in a library; its floor-to-ceiling windows stifled from light by thick robed curtains shutting out the day. All the books are down from the shelves; some in piles, most strewn across the wooden floor like rubble in a bomb blast. He sits in the middle of the chaos and flicks desperately through a large book on his lap. I am doubtful that he can even see the words on the page in this light.

"Sherlock, please talk to me." My voice is so obviously torn between anger and concern, unsure of which is going to greet him properly as I start to make my way over. He chooses for me.

"What are you doing here John?" He doesn't even look up from his madness.

"What the bloody hell do you think I am doing here you idiot? Look at the state of you."

Silence.

I walk closer, carefully picking out bits of carpet so as not to trample the delicate books under foot. "Why are you hiding out here alone Sherlock, it's ridiculous? If someone's after you surely you have an advantage on London turf? No one knows that City like you." I have so many questions, but which of them will effectively entice him out of this current state I don't know.

More silence.

I still cannot see his face properly so I follow what is hidden deep in my gut; cutting myself open like fish.

"Fine, well if you wanted to leave me you should have just said. There's no need to act like a fucking child Sherlock." I turn with every intension of going, anger seeping out of every pour of my skin. He stirs in the darkness and I hear him get up slowly, carelessly knocking the book to the floor.

"He promised me you would be safe"- he says, sounding tired and unsure of himself. It succeeds in stopping me.

"Who promised you that Sherlock?"-anger still very much present in my voice. "Was it Mycroft? Tell me what's going on?"

"You have to go John, now." He sounds breathless.

I am losing my patience for him and I grab at his arm pulling him to face me noting the heat from his skin. "No. Tell me what is going on now ." I see his face properly for the first time since I arrived and the change in him hits the Doctor in me bluntly. He looks dreadfully pale and his cheek bones are more pronounced than ever, allowing him to take on a more ethereal quality than usual. I frown, trying to get a better look at him. "Sherlock are you alright? Mycroft said you were unwell." I feel him shaking a little under my grasp.

"I'm begging you John, go. He'll know you're here, it's not safe."

Before I can work anymore out of him he drops to his knees heavily. "Sherlock?" Catching him in time I am able to slide us gently to the floor, clearing books with my feet and cushioning his head and shoulders as he briefly loses consciousness. " Sherlock, can you hear me?" His forehead is extremely hot to touch and I notice a thin bead of sweat sitting ominously on his brow. _How did he get it to this state?_ After a few seconds he comes to enough to bat my probing hands away from his face, satisfying me for the immediate.

"Sherlock you have a fever" -I say in frustration, helping him to sit up a little and trying to prize his hands from my shirt. "Did Mycroft give you any shots before you came out here?" _God, he could have caught any number of things just from a walk through the surrounding undergrowth_. He doesn't answer but leans back heavily into my arms, lifting a hand to rub his forehead, obviously struggling to remain upright. His weight upon me feels something akin to relief, allowing me to have my own moment of reprisal since I got here. _It's alright, I'm here now_.

I give him a minute to recover. "Okay, up you get" I say, dragging him to his feet and holding him tightly round his waist whilst lifting an arm about my shoulders. He gets a second to get over a wave of dizziness then I guide him out the library gesturing to the rifle-carrying Brazilian who stands in confusion, gun at the ready. "It's okay, just help me get him to a bedroom."

Once we have all but carried him to a nearby room, I fling him on to the four poster bed and take his shirt off over his head. He's shivering a little despite the heat and his eyes watch me with a hazy intensity that makes me more self-conscious than I have ever been. He reaches a hand up to my face then traces it down the back of my neck as I take his pulse. I remove his arm and try desperately to concentrate.

"When was the last time you ate Sherlock, or drank for that matter?"

He doesn't answer my question, instead brining his hands up to my face, forcing me to look him in the eye. "I know you think about that night John"-he says sounding slurred with fever. He waits a second then grabs my shirt pulling me in for a kiss.

I flush dramatically; overcome by the memory of the night we were drunk together. I cannot help but return the kiss briefly, but then come to enough to push him back firmly against the pillows trying to regain my focus. "Always with the propensity for dramatics- I say more to myself than anyone else; standing and running a hand through my hair as I watch Sherlock fidget trying to sit back up.

"Right, I'll be back in a minute. If you move, so help me God Sherlock…"

With the help of Maria; the old woman from the garden it did not take me long to find the things I wanted from the kitchen. When I return to the room I give him the choice of eating what I have bought or getting my bag and putting in a line for intravenous fluids. He knows I'm not bluffing and sits back as I distract him with words long enough to get a small bit of food and water into him.

By the time I am done he looks exhausted, heat reverberating from his skin like fire. I check him over properly, ignoring his protests. "We have to get that fever down". I leave for a second to get a cold cloth. It probably wasn't anything serious but it profoundly disturbed me the depths he could plummet to when I was not around to watch.

He looks comforted as I place the cold cloth on his forehead, stroking his considerably longer curls from his face. "There really is a thin line between genius and insanity with you isn't there?"

"Shut up you idiot"-he says, eyes closed and sounding as if he believes us to be back in our living room arguing over who will do the washing up. I release the breath I was holding and sit back allowing myself to smile a little. I am the only one I am aware of that can lull him to sleep with words and so when my presence has done its job, I stand to leave him to sleep in the cool.

Before I go I lift his head slightly to adjust the pillow underneath him, for if he sleeps like that he will not be able to move his neck for a week. As my hand reaches underneath the pillow, it strikes something hard. I pull it out and stare at it with a renewed feeling of dread.

"Oh Sherlock- I whisper. "What have you done?"


	4. Chapter 4

**PLEASE read and review. It makes me happy on my horrid night shifts . **

**ALERT- Evil cliff hanger again I'm afraid. I just can't stop.**

**JX**

**Chapter 4**

I sit and play with the plastic case of the disk, turning it restlessly in my hands. _This can't be good_. After leaving Sherlock I had walked the rest of the house and gardens; mapping its layout as I imagine Sherlock had done himself when he arrived. If it was true, if someone was coming for this disk or for Sherlock I had to be ready.

The house was a vast myriad of beautiful rooms and hallways and I had to take care not to stray too far from Sherlock's room in case he reappeared. There were no telephones to be found, but I instead came across a WW2 Morse coder, amongst other things in a well-stocked ops room in the cellar. Close by lay a few transcribed communications from Mycroft as well as some names I did not recognise. I made a mental note to congratulate him on the government's simplistic intelligence. _If it ain't broke, don't fix it_.

Walking around the grounds I had caught glimpses of Gabriel checking the perimeters in the undergrowth along with a stern-looking Luis; the rifleman. They had watched me briefly then continued on their way; the older man firing orders to the eager foot-soldier trailing intently behind him. I could tell I was not trusted as yet, despite credentials notifying them of my imminent arrival from Mycroft in the cellar.

I leave them to it and commence my own investigation of the greenery around the gardens, finding a concealment of heat and movement detection devises, as well as trip wire; tools of a solider I recognise. Feeling my past life merge together, tangling with Sherlock's only adds to my anxiety. In any other situation I believe this would have pleased me.

That was a few hours ago and now the sun is setting low into the endless expanse of sea as I walk to the end of the large marble balcony that looks out across the small golden beach far below. I had not heard the thunderous sound when I had first arrived, but now that the light was fading and the birds and insects had hushed, I was left with the malevolent crash of black waves against the rocks below.

The sound of tumbling water had always perturbed me a little more than I had ever admitted to myself, never having identified the reason for it. Maybe I was to succumb to it one day. Maybe it was a warning of a danger to come.

As the sun finally dips into the black heat below and the warm breeze caresses my skin, I start to feel fatigue seeping in; its tendrils clawing at my bones and brain. Twenty-four hours ago no one could have convinced me that I would find myself here; chasing a man I had only met a few months ago. But then I was learning that one should never count on anything where Sherlock was concerned.

Sherlock.

I put my guard on hold just for a little while as my brain slips back to the bedroom and how he had held on to me with burning hands. Could he really have meant what he'd said earlier, that he was in some way needing to protect me, or was it a fever-induced paranoia; I had seen it many times before. Now that my programmed responses as a man of medicine were done with, it utterly escaped me how I'd kept my nerve. I cannot remember anyone ever having the effect on me that he appears to have; no past girlfriends nor the few men I had experimented with at university and in the darkened army dormitories late at night. None of it compared to him and it scared me.

My skin prickles with the recall of what could have been two hours ago, where I _should_ be now. _That glorious skin_, _you deserve a medal John. _I check myself before my nerves implode feeling the need to try and separate my feelings for this man and what danger may lie before us. I have to stop thinking about him in this way, just for the while at least until we can sort out this unimaginable mess, until I can protect myself.

_Sherlock doesn't get attached to people John. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?_

I suddenly hear the sound of bare feet upon marble and before I can wake the sleeping soldier inside of me, I am hit from behind with the force of him; arms snaked around my waist. He holds my back tight against his chest, burying his face in my neck. I daren't move in case I disturb this dream of the fatigued_.__ What a dream_.

"Come to bed"- he says with a breathless whisper, warm words adding to the heat around me as intoxicating to my body as he was three weeks ago.

"You've changed your tune. I thought I was supposed to be half way back to London by now"- I say trying to hold out a little longer just in case nothing about this is real and I'm dreaming this place, the breeze, him saying these words. He presses into me further, lips teasing my neck, knowing full well the effect this would have on me. "Come to bed" he says again, this time pulling me back with a quiet desperation I never believed I would hear in him.

I hang my head making my mind up to be strong, not to be distracted in this way. Turning in his grasp so that my back is against the cool stone balcony, I look up into the dark brooding pools where his eyes should be. He looks drunk with want and tries to kiss me. But before he can, I turn slightly so that his flushed skin touches my cheek instead. _God this is hard_. I press the disk into his chest.

"Are you going to tell me what this is doing here? It seems Mycroft is going to great lengths to have a useless disk decoded."

His eyes don't leave mine; instead opting to continue his intensions; hands seeking what they want from me and making it clear what he wants me to do in turn. I swallow hard.

"John, shut up and come to bed with me please."

His touches are drowning. "Sherlock stop." This visibly hurts him and he drops his arms leaving my chest cold. I push myself on; our lives possibly depending upon it. "Someone got to you didn't they? What's so important that would you come out here? Have you made a counter arrangement for this disk, because that's all I can think of Sherlock; that you're bringing this disk out here to be picked up by the very individuals it was being held from." I choose my next words carefully as I know the importance of what I'm about to say, even if I don't believe it. _I know him. _ "Did you make a deal with the Russians Sherlock?

"Oh yes of course"-he says; flamboyant sarcasm taking the place of the man before me. "Come on John! You can achieve anything in a country where 'rule of law' is frequently absent and the government agents are like whispers, surely you of all people know that?"

"Russia."

"Oh please. Who said anything about Russia? I'm talking about the British government and all its….'infestations'"- he shouts sounding tired. "I didn't realise that the game was back on until it was too late John. I should have been able to stop it before it got this far, before he…" He gives up and goes to leave, looking angry with himself for saying too much.

"Moriarty"- I say in surprise, grabbing his arm.

"You must go John, please."

"Stop saying that." -I shout in frustration. He looks at me the way he did that night during the drugs raid back at Baker Street, where he manages to say everything he needs without words, his eyes drawing me in every time.

"It was for me wasn't it?"

The words don't sound as ridiculous out loud as they did in my head and he does not need to confirm it for me. We stare at each other, neither one wanting to break the silence. After a few seconds I draw him towards me, immediately overwhelmed by his sudden vulnerability. I take his face in my hands wanting to quell this unrest of panic so alien to him in my eyes. He lets me and in turn rests his forehead upon mine, feeling like surrender.

"He'll be coming John. He'll know you are here. He'll just be biding his time"- panic rising in his voice once more. "He promised me you'd be hurt if I didn't leave. It was never entirely about the disk, I worked that bit out immediately. Once it was in my possession, that is when he made his presence felt. He sent me photos of us John; god knows how he managed to get through all of Mycroft's intelligence, He'll be most put out with that. Moriarty knows I wouldn't risk you. You're too…. useful to me John. The game is that you are only safe when you are no longer in my company."

"Useful?"-I say childishly, wanting to know what more of me would drip from his mouth.

"Later. Not the time John! Don't you see that this was the most logical course of action for me, eliminating the factor with the highest possibility of risk? You John. He promised that if I were to continue with you in that 'fashion', you would be at risk indefinitely. He knew I would choose this option; leaving you to protect you. But now I can't keep you safe anymore, neither of us can."

"Neither of us?"

"Mycroft. He'd been most accommodating in arranging protection for you, despite me not allowing him my reasons. He no doubt would have wanted to charge in and we know that a battle is not what Moriarty wants. He wants a game John. A dangerous game that maims instead of killing."

"Alright, enough of this. I am here now and that's not going to change anytime soon, got it?"

"Moriarty does not make mistakes John."

"Sherlock, neither do you. You just needed me to remind you. We don't divide no matter what."

I pull him from the edge of the balcony, taking his hands in mine. "We'll talk about the rest of this tomorrow, it's late and you still look awful."

"I don't need rescuing John"- his head down low.

"Says the man I found this morning wearing no shoes, demolishing a library and rambling about his Doctor."

Silence.

He kisses me from where we left off, suddenly forgetting the coldness of the discussion moments before. Heat returns to my soul and I let him leave my grasp to take me from behind as before, crushing my back into his chest. This time there are no reserves left within me and my arms reach up and around him. He takes a rough grip round my hips and feels his way to what he wants, all the time with lips pressed to my ear breathing hard into my soul.

I drag him back quite vigorously out of the exposure of the balcony and slam his back against the wall behind us; half out of relief for the increased contact and partly out of an anger I had not yet addressed in myself. The noise he makes tells me that that he greatly approves of my strength and I pivot, pinning him against the wall feeling him against my waist. _I have to make myself clear. _I suddenly grab his collar and shove him against the wall to get his attention. He wakes slightly from his arousal, eyes expectant.

"You ever pull a stunt like that again and I'll kill you myself do you hear?"

The man lies on his belly in the black undergrowth and tries his view through the night vision binoculars. _A perfect position._ His face is expressionless as he stubs out his cigarette upon the ground and picks up the large AK-47, assembling its last steely black tube. He brings it up to his eye, aligning it to his target. _This is going to be easier than expected._


	5. Chapter 5

**Please Read and Review. **

**Chapter 5**

Our hands become hurried as we feel our way to what we both need from the other, all the while enjoying our first real kiss; deep and all encompassing, hands in hair, skin on skin. How did we end up waiting for this inevitability for so long and how come I didn't know it was him I'd been looking for?

"Wait….wait"-I say breathlessly, remembering the security cameras I had found earlier. Being who he is he of course already knows what I am referring to.

"I don't care, I want you now" – he growls, _ever impatient. _He must feel me stiffen a little under the gaze of the lenses, for then he recovers himself just enough to look petulant and pull me dramatically through the door and towards the bedroom from earlier.

Once safely inside, door locked, and hearts cut open, I steady his shaking hands and try to slow him a little. I want to enjoy him and have him enjoy it more. I want to be able to recall all of it in case it should never happen again, in case he should come to his senses. I think I should die if it was to be my only taste of him.

He seemingly has none of my fears, but I read something in his eyes that I recognised from earlier, a slight nervousness maybe. I cannot say for sure if he has ever been intimate with anyone before me, but I am unable to be as gentle with him as I feel I should be. I guide his hands as he makes for the most eager of students, impatient to please me and have me please him in return. At first he refused the later, telling me that he was happy just to be close to me in this manner. But once I had silently shown him a taste of what I wished to do to him, there were no further excuses and he lay beneath me, eyes wide, hands pulling hard around my shoulders and back, drinking me in whilst I coaxed him to the brink. It was the most delicious of role reversals.

He was most vocal, calling my name constantly, making it the most imprinted memory I will ever hold dear. Unless of course we should better it together of which I am desperately hopeful. Now that we lie together my mind drifts to what is being held back by the locked door. If we stay here should the inevitable never find us? May we stay unperturbed in this grand bed fit for kings and lovers? We ignore the creak of floor boards outside the door for it occurs to neither of us in our current state to ensure all is well outside of ourselves.

He must hear my thoughts of the beyond, for he turns my head towards him on the pillow and kisses me slowly. His tongue and passion not fatigued by our recent activities and turning what has just happened between us in to what feels like a 'romance' and not something I feared we may regret in the moments to come as I have so many times before.

"I'm sorry that this took us here, now, and not all those weeks ago back in London."- he says

I am unable to respond to him at first, it being just enough for me to concentrate on the smallest of light dancing in his eyes. "I'm sorry that this doesn't change anything that the danger I bought to the door still remains John." Hearing him say my name again, when not ten minutes ago he was calling it through a hazy mist of pleasure stirs the protective part of my brain that must encourage him with in this new-found display of his being.

It's only then that I find my words. "I wouldn't change any of it"-I say to him, turning on my side and wrapping my arms about his waist, resting my chin in the crook between his neck and shoulder. "Sometimes these things are needed in order to get our attention." He seems to contemplate this in great depth and it is here that I eventually left him for sleep; an odd sort of sleep that belongs only to the hunted.

When I awoke the next morning it was to an empty bed, the cool pillow across from me serving as a stark reminder of what maybe awaiting us. I throw on some clothes and pad out on the cold marble floor, finding Sherlock sitting at a set breakfast table on the balcony. I don't disturb him immediately, taking the moment to watch him seemingly unaware of my presence. I'm sure that this is the first time he has actually sat out in the sun since he arrived in this strange paradise, especially as I had heard him refer to it as "one of the great British timewasting activities of the twenty-first century". I still find myself wondering what he would look like touched by the sun.

It oddly suits him here and I can suddenly see him in a secluded cottage somewhere, like the Sussex coast with a garden perhaps. Once he professes being done with London of course. Maybe I can imagine myself there with him. In the minute of quiet ponder leaning upon that doorframe watching my friend; I have lived a life with him there, just the two of us among bees and books. I shall always hope that he will ever conceive of having me, for despite only a few months of knowing him, I can't imagine any sort of life without him.

At this moment in time he looks like a man awaiting his fate. The vulnerability I witnessed in him last night on this very spot appearing at the corner of his eyes as he pushes the plate of food from him untouched. I've observed enough.

"Good morning" I say, unable to keep a smile form my face as his eyes reach mine, trailing a hand down the back of his neck as I pass. Despite showing his warmth at my presence, it is his turn to be aware of our company and his eyes unconsciously dart down to the right of the balcony where the young girl from the kitchen is picking fruit. I remove my hand gently and take a seat opposite.

"How are you feeling?"- I say, a small wave of awkwardness washing over me as I busy myself with the well prepared breakfast. He doesn't answer and the seconds start to draw out in front of me_. Oh God, he wishes it hadn't happened_. But instead a hand appears over mine, stilling it for a second and when I look up he smiles his sly omniscient smile, washing away my immediate anxieties with the gentle tide from the beach below us. Just when I am about to ask if we should return to the room, the bushes move as the old woman emerges and Sherlock's uneasy look of a tortured man returns. _It's so alien to me seeing him like this._

"Okay, enough of this Sherlock, here is what we are going to do. One, get a message to Mycroft and fill him in on what you have done. Two, see if he can get a whereabouts on Moriarty. 3, have him dispatch a team to pick us up as soon as possible. Despite his deal in this, I still have faith in your brother and although he is frequently too carless of you, I think he is the only one to get us out of this right now. In the meantime, stop looking so worried. I shouldn't have to remind you that I'm an ex-Soldier with a gun. Now eat. "

To my surprise he has nothing to add to my plan apart from a smile that I want to interpret as pride. He picks up some bread, leaving me in shock at our sudden reversal of roles. Me throwing the orders and Sherlock without question knowing that I am right, the past few weeks affecting him more than I ever would have thought possible.

"By the way, I know I'm going to regret asking this but how did you get a disk you could pass off to Mycroft?"

"One of my irregulars at Baker Street was a drop out from M.I.T and owed me a favour."

"Nice. What will he find when it is decoded."

He waves a hand in a nonchalant manor. "Oh, I believe it is called a 'Weight-watchers point system'."

"You never miss a chance to tease your brother do you?"

He smiles at me and continues to eat.

We finish our well-prepared breakfast and I thank a hovering Maria. "Have you seen Luis or Gabriel this morning? We need to send a message from the cellar"- I ask her.

"I no seen Mr Luis Sir"-she says in broken English. "Maybe he gone to the town, the truck is no there. Gabriel is down on beach for checks. Sorry Sir, I no help."

I leave Sherlock to get dressed, despite his best efforts to coax me back to the room, thinking it better I not get distracted any further than I have already. I make my way down the marble stairs to the cellar, every step I take away from Sherlock allowing the anxiety of our situation to flood back into the spaces he had filled. _We just need to get out of this mess now_.

I stop dead in my tracks, staring at the broken lock on the communication room door and reach for where my gun should be. "Oh Shit." I had chosen to leave it with Sherlock. Slowly I push the door open to find a room turned over in haste along with a space where the Morse coder had been yesterday. _God had I only been here 24 hours._

The sound of a single gunshot pierces the air from the rooms above.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for the reviews, especially those from 'Skyfullofstars' for all your kind and motivating comments regarding my stories. JX**

**Chapter 6**

My feet pound the stairs in desperation.

"Sherlock… Sherlock."

He is nowhere to be seen, along with the gun I had left in his care. I think my insides may have decided to remain in the basement without me. I am about to lose my mind as well as my stomach, when the breeze from the half open patio door brushes my cheek and my feet fail to touch the ground as they carry me across the garden and out towards the cliff edge.

Nothing.

Something tells me to turn right and head out towards the rough path down to the beach, my strides becoming more of a sprint as the air escapes my lungs in panic.

Someone grabs my shoulder, instantly grounding me with their voice.

"John?"

_Oh thank God_. "Sherlock, I thought you'd... I thought that…" My hands grab at his fresh shirt just to make sure he is there. His eyes are alive, more so like the man I know. _What a time for his love of the adventure to return._

"This way John"-he says pulling at my elbow. "I was shot at by a man in the bushes and I believe he is now headed for the beach."

"Sherlock wait. I couldn't send the message to Mycroft, someone got into the house."

"Yes well, it was only a matter of time John; I am a hunted man after all." He takes my hand, opening my palm and I am momentarily stunned by the contact as he places my gun there and closes it tight. "Here. _You'd_ better take this. It will award us a better chance." He accompanies it with the smile that that could talk me in to anything.

"Sherlock, I think it would be more sensible if we were to return to the house." But my words are snatched from me as a hand pulls at mine once more and he starts to scramble down the poorly defined path, kicking up dust and stones over the edge in his wake. _God this is high up._

"Sherlock, please, just stop a minute. The likelihood is that there are more than one of Moriarty's men here, we need to think about our options".

"This may have stopped being a game for me John, but he's still playing by the rules we set out long ago and the next move on the board requires the cat to chase the mouse. You can choose which you think pertains to us."

There is a noise above and before I can make anything out in the glare of the midday sun, the solid form of a man plummets down upon us like a boulder, knocking the gun from my hand and taking Sherlock with him on a bone crushing tumble down the jagged rocks below. I am off down the rough terrain before I can think about how dangerous it is; my feet sliding, arms and elbows scraped by the dry, acrid plants catching the cloth of my shirt like angry hands jutting from the earth. Before I can steer my path, the dust settles enough so that I can see Sherlock on a ledge, squirming slowly under the body of our fallen man; coughing and sputtering as he tries to rid himself of the crushing dead weight.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm alright." _Coughing._ "Don't come any further, the ground is unstable and there's no point in both of us getting stranded down here."

I retrieve the gun, taking a second to scan the ground above us but not really expecting to be able to use it. Moriarty had taken his move. Nothing would happen now until Sherlock rolled his own dice. Made his own move.

"Are you hurt?" I shout.

"Just a few cuts I think" _coughing_. "Which is more than I can say for our friend Luis." He pulls the man from on top of him and I see the clean bullet wound to the forehead; his cold dead eyes wide open, displaying the last ebb of fear clearly visible on the stern man's face. Sherlock brings himself slowly to his knees, wincing in pain as he keeps his balance but knocking more gravel over the edge. He stares at the executed man, guilt and anger penetrating his usually locked inner cabinet.

"Damn it!" –he shouts, slamming a hand hard into the earth making me jump.

"I'm sorry Sherlock."

He is silent for a moment taking in this latest move, having never been a man to deal well with the negative consequences of his choices and actions. Now is not the time to offer up any council, so I begin to remove my shirt in order to have something to pull from the ledge with.

He closes Luis' eyes, an act that surprises me, his own curious eyes examining something on the man's large muscular neck. From here it looks like markings, words maybe, but I hadn't noticed any tattoos when I had met Luis before. Sherlock carefully moves around the body and I crane my neck to see him undoing the buttons of the blood stained shirt. He seems to stiffen, turning slightly and obscuring my view.

"Sherlock, what is it? What can you see?"

He snaps out of his silence, doing up the buttons in haste. "It is nothing, just a tattoo John. Help me up would you. We will have to leave him for now."

It takes a few minutes to get him up and he's silent throughout, having understandably lost the appreciation of the chase. He allows me to check him over finding only what he had admitted in the way of a nasty looking cut on his head and a rather impressive bruise forming around his ribs. Thankfully no breakages though. He starts back towards the house without a word and I follow as I always will, choosing not to question our change in tactics.

Back at the house he is deep in thought, watching me silently as I try to fix a broken radio transmitter found in the basement. It is a lost cause I know, but I am thankful he hasn't pointed it out to be 'an obvious waste of time', as he would have done countless times before. I give up, dumping the pile of wires and plastic on the table next to me and rub my tired eyes.

"Right, if we're bunking down here until we can get Mycroft's attention, I am going to raid the kitchen. Will you eat?"

"Mmm?"- he says not concentrating.

"Food Sherlock!"

He waves a dismissive hand at me and so I leave him sitting in the cool dark, with fingers clasped under his chin; a position in which I have left him in many times before always landing me with a sense of discontentment. When I return with a plate of fruit he stands abruptly, deciding upon something he has debating within himself. He looks across at me, failing to hide a nervousness that is lying heavily upon his being.

"Let us take a walk on the beach John."

"What? I thought you said it was safer to stay in the house, await the next move."

He looks panicked, like a man who has just realised his time is up and takes that energy to cross the room. He gathers up my shoulders, eyes sweeping my features and leans heavily.

"Please John, let us just take a walk on the beach." I can hear the poorly disguised anguish that lurks beneath his words.

"Okay, okay"- I say placing a concerned hand on the back of his neck, hoping to calm him enough to get some sense out of him. He releases a breath in relief and rests his forehead gently upon mine. I feel my brain slowing down and I am no longer aware my hunger. He takes the plate out of my hand and replaces it with the gun.

We walk in silence, my weapon in hand all the while, it twitching occasionally as the hot breeze moves the increasingly sparse greenery around us. Sherlock strangely doesn't appear perturbed by our immediate threat at present, seeming content to just take my arm and walk.

When we reach the sand, I remove my shoes and pull us toward the shore, encouraging Sherlock into the warm water. He still appears distant and I tug on his arm in order to gain some of his attention. He smiles, shading his eyes from the sun.

"So what are we doing down here?"- I ask. "Is there a plan, should I be prepared to use the gun?"

"No. No plan. Isn't it what one does when in the throes of what we are currently in Doctor, take a walk together?"

I'm just about to remind him that nothing about our situation negates frivolity when I notice a small boat house tucked into the rocks up ahead, a tanned shirtless figure busying himself amongst the wood and tools. He becomes aware of our presence and raises a casual hand in greeting and continues with his work.

"Gabriel!"- I say, placing the gun back in my pocket as we head towards him.

"You are well Mr Holmes?"- he says, not stopping his work and professing better English than I had noticed previously. He obviously has no knowledge of our current predicament, or what has become of Luis.

"Yes, thank you Gabriel. What are you busying yourself with here?"- Sherlock asks casually, picking up a tool from the bench.

"I'm fixing up a boat, Mr Luiz is teaching me. He's a good teacher Mr Holmes."

"Yes, quite."-says Sherlock supressing a look of guilt that only I will ever be able to spot.

"Gabriel"- I start. "You must.." Sherlock pauses my warning with a gentle touch to the forearm.

"Stay down here until the light goes, there's a good lad. I'm sure you have lots you can be getting on with. Come John, let's continue our walk."

"Why wouldn't you let me warn him Sherlock?"-I ask once we are clear of the woodshed and once again upon the lapping shore.

"He will be safe down here. Moriarty has removed his threat. Now where were we? Ah yes. Here I believe." He takes my arm and eyes me carefully after a while of silence. "Okay John, what would alleviate your mood?"

"Sherlock, this isn't St James' Park. We're not taking a 'care-free' walk on a Sunday afternoon. We are on the run. We should be…" I'm cut off once more.

"Well then let us be" –he says in frustration. "Let us be in St James Park if that is what it will take you to forget it all for just a moment. His hands start around my waist, wavering my balance in the strengthening tide now up to our shins.

"This is very unlike you Sherlock; you see why this is difficult for me? But if it will make you happy."

"It would." He leans in to kiss me, but it is poorly timed with a larger then expected wave and in conjunction with his awkward movement; it knocks him off his feet and into the water almost taking me with him. When he emerges, his look of surprise sends me in to a fit of giggles and for a second he looks at me in confusion, not remotely understanding the humour I have found at his expense.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Come here"- I say, reining in my laughter and offering him my hand.

It is of course a bluff and I catch the grin before he pulls me in after him. We lose ourselves as he had so wished in the tumbling waves; hands and lips as free as the sea itself. When we find ourselves beached once more, the sea lapping at our shoulders and the sand turning to molten gold around our waists, I manoeuvre myself on top of him. I pin him down, my hands holding me above, and hips finding a natural resting place upon his. He loses the amusement from his eyes.

"What would you do if this was your last night on earth John?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you again to those of you reviewing; it does mean a lot. A bit of a fluffy one, this one. Thanks again to Skyfullofstars for the encouragement.**

**Characters don't belong to me….etc….**

**Chapter 7**

"Don't taunt me Sherlock; you know already how I would choose to spend my last few hours."

"I'm not taunting you John, I'm being serious." He pulls me down into the sand next to him so that he can lean his head upon my good shoulder. "Tell me"- he whispers.

I place an arm around his own shoulders and draw him into me. "Well I suppose it would be unremarkable to any other day we have spent together, apart from a few minor deviations of course." He gets my meaning and raises an eyebrow making me laugh. "It would start with one of Mrs Hudson's cooked breakfasts; there is no better way of starting the day. Then I think we would walk, I miss London's parks already despite our 'break' from the weather. Then I believe dinner at the Royale. Yes, definitely the Royale, perhaps take in the LSO at the Royal Albert Hall on the way back to Baker Street. I know how you love their Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni."

I feel him take a deep breath against my chest which I hold as agreement. He feels strangely heavy despite the water and I realise am not used to taking his weight in this fashion. He has been away from London for too long.

I am reminded of my reoccurring dream which I have not had since arriving here. It is much reminiscent of this scene I find myself in; the sea lapping at my trousers, happily wrapped about his person. It must have been some form of premonition. He would berate me terribly if I should mention it but I am thankful for the image that has replaced the nightmares that previously haunted my war-fraught dreams.

"Quite perfect my dear John. I was clearly wrong."

"About what exactly?"

"That you had poor taste in eating establishment, obviously."

I tut at him in mock annoyance and he comes to from his own imagination. Taking leave of my side, he stands and pulls at my hand.

"To the house I think. I've had enough of our walk"- he says with a carefree wink.

I take his hand, allowing him to begin our path back. Before our 'swim', I hadn't seen past Gabriel's wood shed and now that the sun is behind us, I see the small dark caves that litter the cliff side. I'm taken by our mood and pull him back, clutching his hips to mine and kissing him hard, still in disbelief that I am allowed. Once I am able to pull myself away, I take his hands heading towards one of the caves, the possibility of there being any danger inside as distant as London itself. He clearly approves of our detour and once inside the darkness, we are consumed by the shadows allowing other senses to take precedence.

It feels wonderful to be out of the heat of the sun and I place heavy hands upon his shoulders, pushing him down on to his knees where I am quick to follow. I start at removing damp clothes from a trembling Sherlock, his body seemingly unable to handle what is wrenching through him at this very moment. I would never admit to a soul, but I quietly congratulate myself at being the one to draw this reaction out of the great stoic 'Sherlock Holmes' and I thank the heavens that it is me and not some other poor wretch.

It is the briefest of tumbles, still desperate for the newness of it all. More than once a vigorous roll results in a scratch from a jagged rock for one or both of us, making it an encounter in which we have scars to prove. He tastes of salt and sand and it is heavenly. When we are both spent and have donned our wet sandy trousers, we lie for a minute regaling in the cool silence. I can feel him thinking.

"I must ask a favour of you John."

"Another?"- I say in jest. "I'm only just done with the last thing you asked of me."

He continues, ignoring my comment. "Despite our current situation, I still am unable to find solace at your arrival here and I still wish you had remained at Baker Street where I could be sure that you would remain safe. Anyway, that disappointment aside…."

"That _disappointment_?" I say, my mood shifting as I sit up upon my elbows.

"That disappointment aside, I must tell you that there is a letter I wish you to give to Mycroft in the event of me not returning to London. It will clear things up nicely and hand him some very concise leads indeed. It appears Moriarty has quite a bit going on in this part of the world." He looks pleased with himself.

"I refuse to speak of this any further"- I say getting up from the sand and picking up his shoes to hand to him. He looks surprised at my outburst, as I am myself.

"It's practicality John. It would be idiotic of me not to have put something in place."

"Yes of course, how stupid of me? Well, forgive me if I do not join you in this pessimistic outlook, I don't believe it to be of any use to us. Do you not think of how your words affect me, affect how I feel about this, here?"

"Will it change the outcome?"- he says coldly.

I stare blankly at him in disbelief, not feeling entirely sure that he did indeed come here to protect me after all. Once again I am left battered as I have been countless times before only this time it means more, feels more like a malice he'll never understand. It casts a shadow over our activities here and what may await us in London when we return. When we _both_ return. I've never heard him so resigned to a fate such as this.

We walk back to the house in silence, the weight of my gun once more lying heavily in my pocket. I notice Sherlock flick glances at his watch and I wonder what on earth he is bothering with it for. Doesn't he know that time stopped two hours ago, he was the one that made it so? I'm still unsure of how the mood between us could change so quickly. Maybe it is because there is more of _us_ to ignite now.

He sits where he had been before we left for the beach, taking up his earlier pose of stone as if the last few hours hadn't happened at all. My mind turns to what it always does when Sherlock is turned down so low; my stomach. I silently place the gun in front of him on the table, always longing for his safety above my own.

I pad to the kitchen, all nerves now fully back where they had been previously, erasing the carefree attitude teased so skilfully out of me earlier. As I round the corner towards the kitchen directly two floors below where I had left Sherlock, I smell it as only an Army Doctor could.

Blood.

My pulse quickens and for the second time that day I berate myself for leaving the gun behind. _Maybe Sherlock was no good for me after all._ I creep slowly, noticing red footprints of a larger man than myself leading out into the vegetable garden walked through on my arrival here. I swallow hard, making my mind up to face whatever is behind this door head on.

The scene that awaits me is that of a blood bath. The body of Maria lies on the cool tiled floor; exsanguinated of almost her entire blood volume with the peeling knife still in her hand from where she had stood at the sink. A clear gash from what appeared to be a cut-wire sits about her neck like a red ribbon, the blood pooling like silk. I want to be sick there and then, not just from the sight before me but also from the thought of the younger girl who had greeted us with a nervous smile that morning. Maria's body is cold to touch and I guess that she was killed a few minutes after we ourselves left the house, adding yet another casualty to this game we are locked within.

I make a strange decision which still confuses me to this day. I retrace my steps and close the large wooden door behind me, shutting out the devastation. It will serve no purpose to bring this to Sherlock's attention, he is placed on a scale at present and for selfish reasons I do not wish that scale to be tipped. He needs to be sharp, needs to be focused to await the next move. I will carry this enough for the both of us for the time being. He will not after all be inclined to use the kitchen.

After I scan the remaining rooms for any sign of the young girl and find nothing, I take the stairs back to Sherlock, making my mind up to brush over his blunt words and just be thankful that we have come this far. I take a moment to compose myself for he will see through me like glass if I return in this state and as I turn the corner into the room I almost smash into him.

"I was about to come and find you."

"Yes, sorry. I just, I…."

He takes in my features, and just when I think he may question me further or request to see my haul from the kitchen, he places hands upon either side of my face and brushes his fingers over my features.

"I hate it when we quarrel, say that you won't remember it of me John."

I feel like giving him everything in that second for his words sounds like a goodbye. My hands need to touch him, he is now a physical need, not just an emotional one and I think I should cease to exist outside of this man's company in the future.

"I take all of you Sherlock, not just the bits that sit well with me. We will discuss it further when this is over and we have returned to Baker Street, do you hear me?" This sounds harsher than I meant, the moroseness of what lays two floors below us weighing heavily making me feel terribly sorry for my companion, something I have never felt for him before. It is a week of firsts indeed.

He smiles. "Help me check that all the windows and doors are locked John. Then take me to bed."

I do, but it feels like misdirection. I am unable to argue, _he is too beautiful_. We are there for around an hour before he says it, legs entwined with my own.

"I believe Doctor Watson, that I may be in Love and that I have been for a while now, but I'm afraid I have no experience of which to judge it, and well that just makes for poor science."

"Well."- I say after a pause. "You can use my notes. I feel I may concur with your findings." He leans in and kisses me then buries his head in my neck so that I cannot see his expression. I squirm a little underneath him, curious to see what he hides. But before I can he pulls back the covers and jumps out of bed keeping his back to me and grabbing his clothes. His voice sounds funny as he pauses at the door.

"I'm going to check the perimeters John. Stay here, don't move. I will be back in a while."

I give him ten minutes before I step out into the hallway. The house is silent and my heart rate increases with every step that doesn't find him. When I make the living room all there is to see is the pale crisp envelope propped up on the table. It is addressed to Mycroft.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for sticking with me this far. Once again for the record, I don't own these characters. JX**

**Chapter 8**

I don't halt to read the letter as I already know that the black and white contents are not meant for me. They are too full of logic, closures and coldness.

_How can he have done this to me?_

It is dark now, long past the sunset that had belonged to us earlier, with very little natural light coming from the moon outside our prison. I knock over a table as I rush to turn off the lights in order to scan the cliff and beach below us; the once golden sands now as black as tar. Sure enough I can make out an ominous light hovering in the dark heat, a boat perhaps. It could be Mycroft. _Most likely_ _wishful thinking_. I scramble through the black back to our room, where not five minutes ago I had been content to lie within this madness. The disk is gone of course. I had not notice him take it.

Then I hear it; the faint crackle of a voice and nearly trip whilst racing back to the living room to find no one there. More crackles. How did I fail to see it earlier? I pick up the newly fixed radio that hours before I had struggled with, whilst Sherlock lay in his coma seemingly unable to offer any advice. It buzzes loudly and I almost let it drop to the floor in surprise.

- Do you read me? Estimated Time of Arrival thirty minutes. Over -

"Hello. Who is this?" -I say with caution.

-"This is Captain Spears of the Blue Beret Retrieval Team. Doctor Watson I presume? Over."-

"Yes this is he. Did you say you were on your way?"

-"Affirmative Doctor Watson. We received a call for help from your colleague Mr Holmes on this line a few short hours ago that was flagged with a code from the heights of the British Government. Hold tight Doctor Watson, we will be with you in twenty-eight minutes."-

"So that is not your team in the boat approaching the shore?"

-"That's a negative Doctor. I suggest you both remain…"-

I throw the radio onto the chair. A few hours ago this would have been welcome news, but now it was a bell tolling in the distance, a bell that meant Sherlock had done something with an immensity of misguided protection. _How had I been misdirected so easily_? I knew the answer of course. I also knew that he had been waiting for something and had now slipped out to face it alone, leaving me to be 'rescued'_._

All the doors and windows are locked, including the one in which Sherlock would have left by and so I wrap a cloth around my hand and punch the glass until it shatters, reverberating into the night's hot air. My feet race the earth once more to search for my companion. _I shouldn't have let him out of my sight_. _He has a ten minute head start on me_. As I begin to negotiate the dangerous path down to the beach, I see a figure in the darkness up ahead. I ready my gun.

"Sherlock?"

"Doctor?"

"Gabriel, have you seen Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, I have just passed him on the way to the beach. He says he wished for another walk. Is there something wrong?"

"Go to the house and stay away from the windows. Don't open them for anyone apart from Mr Holmes, myself or some men that can show you British Intelligence Identification. Do you understand me Gabriel?"

"Alright Doctor Watson, but can I not be of some help?"

"No, please just be safe. Go now."

As I reach the bottom of the path it is with a knowledge that the boat will have docked by now and I prey to God that I am not too late. For what I am unsure. I am not kept waiting for long as I stumble across the scene playing out upon the beach. Sherlock stands feet away from the man we know as Sebastian Moran, hands held out in surrender as the larger man opens a set of handcuffs.

"Mr Moriarty is looking forward to working with you Mr Holmes." –He says with a disgusting glint in his eye. Sherlock stares blankly at the man in front of him, a dullness to his own eyes that I have never witnessed before.

"May we make this quick Mr Moran? I'm sure your employer does not wish to wait for his prize any longer."

I take my careful step onto the stage. "You are not going anywhere."-I say training my gun at Moran, him dropping the cuffs in surprise of my sudden presence, but raising the gun in their place with a speed that I myself envy.

"You shoot me, I'll shoot him." Moran says in a cool voice. "You know I'll never miss."

"John, go back to the house."- Sherlock says quietly, his glance remaining with Moran. I ignore his words and step further into the triangle. Steady, capable, unwavering.

A large flood light rips through the beach from the beautiful cruise yacht I now see a little way off the shore. Moriarty keeping a watch on his prize no doubt. He will not intervene though; he'll wish to watch the show.

"I needn't have to remind you Mr Holmes that I have my orders."- says an impatient Moran.

"Yes, and those orders do not concern the Doctor anymore. Please John, leave us."

"What is this Sherlock?"- I say, willing him to look at me, just once. I'm sure I could talk him out of anything if he were to just to look at me.

Moran laughs, a horrid bitter laugh. "This is brilliant. Well worth the money he paid me, this. Watching the great Sherlock Holmes turn himself over to Mr Moriarty after all these years." He snarls at me. "Don't you get it yet Doctor? Your 'colleague' here agreed to a new deal we offered him this morning. You go free if he comes and works for Mr Moriarty. You see, he's everywhere my boss. Mr Holmes was never going to get away with ignoring his 'requests'."

"What new deal?"-I say. "You didn't leave my side for a second Sherlock…" It clicks in to place. "Luis ' body. There was something written on Luis' body when he was thrown this morning wasn't there? An ultimatum."

Sherlock lowers his head in defeat, but still refuses to meet my eyes.

"He's a sharp one this one isn't he, your Doctor?"- He gestures to me in amusement, for a second removing his concentration from my friend. I step forward, prepared to catch him off guard but once again the man is too quick, or am I too distracted. I have the most to lose after all.

He grabs Sherlock about the neck, with no resistance being offered up by my friend. With his back now held tightly to Moran's chest, he removes any chance I have of taking the thug down. The gun is now placed firmly against Sherlock's black curls as he is dragged slowly backwards towards the boat awaiting to take him to his new fate, his feet almost losing their grip upon the sandy bed. He glances at me, just for a second. It is enough for me to swear that I can see myself in his eyes and so I plead with him silently.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_Oh, but we both know that's not quite true._

Sherlock starts to struggle in Moran's grip, finding it hard to breath with the tight forearm about his throat pulling him backwards through the shallow water. They are almost at the boat when I take my shot; catching Moran's thigh as he turns to get a better purchase on my companion. Before he can let go of the besieged Sherlock, he brings his gun down hard upon the soft black curls. I hear a grunt as Sherlock falls to his knees, rendered easy to manoeuvre and blinking hard trying to stop the blackness taking him over. Moran renews his haul once again, unperturbed by his injury and ignoring the blood seeping through his trousers and mixing with the salt water.

Two shots are fired.

From somewhere behind me, the first hits Moran square in the forehead and when I take my chance to seek its origin, I see Gabriel on his way across the beach, one of Luis' guns at his side. The grim realisation is clearly visible on Moran's features, as the last of his neurons fire off within his cold, malicious brain. _It wasn't supposed to happen like this, I'm impenetrable. I work for the most powerful man in this country, in most countries. _Before the man who has served Moriarty well for the last of his years falls, he dispels one last shot from his gun aimed to take down the man that has dogged his employer out of his comfortable reign.

My blood runs cold as the moonlight hits the silver shaft of Moran's gun and I hear a shot ring out before he falls. I rush forward hauling up a stunned Sherlock; my hands searching for the wound that I am sure I will find. He comes to and we fall together upon the shore, blood seeping into his eyes from the head wound. We both see the dark stain appearing between us, my panicked hands searching his body.

"Wait, wait."-He says grabbing my hands. "It's not me."

_When I was shot in the Afghan desert, I was aware of it immediately; every single nerve-ending registering the pain of having my flesh torn by the molten hot metal. They tell you that your life flashes before your eyes. I thought of nothing. Not my girlfriend at home, nor my ageing parents or depressed sister. They tell me I saved two men that afternoon, despite the hole in my shoulder. I remember nothing of this, just the pain I had felt that day and the ones that followed it with nothing but sickness in its wake. _

"Oh."

This time I feel nothing of pain or torture. Nothing of the dread that I did that day, or in fact anything to do with my physical body. All I can do this time is think and all I see is _him_. His eyes are wide with terror as he clutches at me from where I have lain down upon the sand, suddenly overcome by an unusual exhaustion.

"John? John."

I become aware of his hands across my heart and he lifts my shoulders pulling me into warm cloth. I would have expected him to be regimented in his attendance of me, focusing only on what needed to be done, or to in fact leave me altogether in order to find help. But he seems to go blank before me, he must realise the hopelessness of this entire situation.

"This really was a very stupid idea, wasn't it John."- His voice shaken.

I am unsure of whether he is directing this at himself or me, but he buries his face in my neck. The pleads that leave his lips are enough to kill me on their own and he begins to rock me gently, but it does not hide the trembling emanating from his entire body, warm tears caressing my forehead.

"You must hold on John. Do you hear me? I forbid anything other than you holding on."

I manage to laugh gently in his arms as he is still so sure of his power, even in a situation in which he has no control, but I struggle to get any noise from my mouth. I'm finding it difficult to keep my eyes open despite my efforts, and when did it become so cold?

I hear a voice I recognise from a disturbing memory as someone comes to stand in front of the devastation; an expensive shoe stubbing out a cigarette upon the sand. I feel Sherlock's grasp of me tighten. Their exchanges are difficult to hear above the buzzing that has taken up residence in my ears, Sherlock's voice reduced to a harsh rumbling that I can only feel through his hollow chest. He seems to contemplate something and as I muster the strength to open my tired eyes, I see his face bathed in a distant light far, far above us; a helicopter. _They've come for us._

Before I can make out what Sherlock is saying to me, two men hurriedly manhandle him from my embrace, leaving me to hit the sand with a thud. Only when he is free from me entirely do I feel the searing pain in my shoulder, the sound of my own scream waking me enough to hear a shower of bullets.

_God what have they done to him, what have I done to him?_

The boat's engine starts up. It has what it wants and cares not to retrieve the wastage of its games_._ I must have passed out, as the next eyes I look into are that of a concerned Gabriel and three of the neatest looking Army uniforms I have ever seen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Bit of a depressing one this, sorry. Again, I do not own and have also borrowed 'the letter' device from ACD and manipulated it for my own ill-gotten gains. Forgive me.**

**Please continue to review, it makes me happy **

**JX**

**Chapter 9**

"Okay John, do you want to try that one more time?"

I bow my head in pain and exhaustion, a feeling I know will not abate any time soon.

"No, I really don't. I've had enough. Take me back to my room please."

Today is the last of my physiotherapy and they have suggested me for discharge this afternoon. Mycroft is coming with a car to take me back to Baker Street for the first time since returning to London. It has been one month. One month of anguish and anxiety, of pain and helplessness, the one person able to elevate it all seemingly lost to the world.

I had taken the bullet to my good shoulder, although I do not believe I may call it that. I now had matching punctuation marks exhibiting the two most prolific periods of my life; which in a strange way helped me to believe that meeting this man had been more than an extraordinary fevered imagining, dreamt up in the sandy battlefield hospitals of Afghanistan.

Mycroft had come to see me as soon as I had awoken from surgery, my only repatriation to the greyness of the UK. _This is it. _I thought to myself.

Silence.

"Is he dead?" I had managed to say, through a haze of drugs and IV lines.

He had looked at his shoes, the room thick with guilt. "We did not find a body John."

I waited for more. _There had to be more._

"What. That's it, that's all you know?"

"For now." He looks most uncomfortable. "This isn't helping your current state, please try and get some rest John."

I attempt to sit up, pulling at wires and setting off alarms. "We have to get back out there. We have to find him." That is as far as I get as the medical team descend and I am sedated for 'my own safety', returning to the blackness once more. Later he would tell me that this had happened a number of times during my recovery. I do not doubt him as the state of my stitches would prove him correct.

I wake the next day to him sitting in the chair beside my bed, passing a familiar white envelope over and over in his well-manicured hands. When he sees that I have awoken, the discomfort in his face returns and he awkwardly hands me a glass of water. He is unsure of what to do with me it seems.

"Anything?"- I croak.

A small shake of his head.

"I see they got Sherlock's letter to you."- I say sleepily. "He asked me to make sure you got it, but that was before …everything."

"No matter, it found its way here."

A long agonising pause filled with clinical machinery. _I'm losing my patience._

"What does it say man!"-I shout, but recover myself quickly as the pain in my shoulder stabs like a hot knife. "I'm Sorry. If you would permit me Mycroft?"

"John. My brother left a letter for you within mine, but it came with a stipulation based on the circumstances of its journey to you." He watches me squirm in pain, face flushed with a fever that he had not noticed previously and then comes to a decision. "No I don't believe it to be the right time John."

_No_, that letter was meant for me. Sherlock's hands had touched it, the words in it hand-picked like flowers for me alone. I needed it now, in case it was to be my last feel of him. I feel ill and incredibly tired, more so than I had in the last few days and so muster all strength and attempt to grab the letter from his hands. The only reward I receive is the stabbing pain, falling back into the pillows whilst a warm trickle of blood trails down my hot chest. He quietly stands and tucks the letter into his jacket pocket leaving me to shout after him and for the staff to come running. _Does he not realise his own cruelty? Is this why Sherlock treats him with such distain?_

My body was low; an infection from my shoulder giving way to severe systemic sepsis of the blood and I do not remember much of the days that followed. The pain and fever were second to the horrific dreams that haunted my fretful sleep. Sometimes I would feel Sherlock stretched out beside me upon the bed, his clothes still wet from the sea. He would kiss me like he had done on the beach, releasing me briefly from the pain in my chest. But as my hands trailed his lean body, multiple bullet holes would appear on his porcelain chest. Other times he would be in the corner of the room pleading for me to help him, the blood from his head wound stinging his eyes.

If he was gone, I wished to join him desperately.

"Please Mycroft, you must tell me what you believe to have happened."- I ask a week later.

He places his hands underneath the chubby chin, the same gesture I have seen in his brother countless times, but with a detectable sadness that only one that has encountered the Holmes brothers would recognise.

"There was blood at the scene other than your own John, but we have already accounted for that; Moran's kill shot and Sherlock's head wound you informed us of. There was, however a substantial amount there." I feel his helplessness and he takes a deep breath composing himself quickly. "The boat that docked cannot be found anywhere by the royal Navy, Militarily or NATO. The man vanishes John. We have seen this many times over, his cleaners follow at all times. It now appears that money was being transferred into the bank account of a 'Captain Spears' who had also held a position in Government. A gentleman I believe we both had dealings with. He too is now nowhere to be seen and we imagine him to have been 'tidied'."

I turn my head away, not wishing him to see my tears.

He arrives at 15.00 hours exactly to collect me from the hospital as promised, picking up the small bag of things from the bed that I had accumulated since my stay. It did not yet include the letter promised to me and my resentment of this seeped from every pour of my skin. The car journey home was a silent one and he lets himself in with his own set of keys, holding the door open as I slowly pass the threshold. He doesn't stay.

It is silent of course, it knows nothing of the changes that had occurred to its occupants whilst removed from these walls and I felt like I needed to tell them what had transpired between Sherlock and myself, what had been confessed to each other. As I ascended the steps to the flat, a heaviness began to crush me and when I had reached the living room it was all I could do to curl up on the sofa struggling to breathe, a dullness ripping at my chest. It was there that Mrs Hudson found me, dropping her shopping and attempting to uncurl my form, her own tears falling upon my head as she cradled me.

"My poor, poor boys"- she had wept. She would come to me later with a crisp white envelope entrusted to her by Mycroft some days earlier.

_My Dearest John,_

_If you are reading this then it means that I have become my fate with Moriarty. He has very kindly allowed me time this afternoon to enjoy what few hours I have left with you. My only wish. It was after all, my own doing in not seeing the plan laid out for me and I am afraid I will have to lay some of that at your door dear boy. You have been somewhat distracting._

_I am to give myself over to Moriarty. He assures me that he intends to make good on his promise to harm you unless I go with him this evening, but has failed to stipulate whether or not he plans to keep me for my talents or end me for good. I fear it is the later. It is no matter now anyhow, it is an effortless decision and one that I would make countless times over. We would have continued to play this game out until the end anyhow, it was just that meeting you, my dearest John and our relationship developing as it has done has prevented me from continuing to be so careless with my surroundings. Therefore you must not blame yourself in anyway. It would always have ended this way, it just has done a little sooner than I myself was expecting._

_I have no doubt John that you will go on and continue to be an extraordinary Doctor. I have selfishly kept you to myself for too long and hope that my death will deliver you back to the world that I have stolen you from. My brother has the instructions for my estate, entrusting my most treasured possessions to your care. I am now certain you will hate me forever, for I have asked him to watch after you carefully. I know that my death will affect you more considerably than anyone else, as I have seen first-hand how you let your emotions get the better of you. I love you for it, never change that about yourself._

_Give Mrs Hudson a warm hug from me (something I now regret not doing enough) and consider me to be, my dearest John, very sincerely yours._

_SH_

I look at the words now losing their clarity as my tears smudge the ink. I feel cheated somehow. I am expected to carry on with a life that had not begun until 6 months ago. I am now very aware of why Sherlock had stipulated the timing of this letter, he believes my grief will lessen in time and allow me to see an audible future without him. How can he have been so stupid?

He gets his way. In time.

Some two months later I am well enough to be back at the surgery for one day a week, Sarah taking pity on me after a visit proved that I was in desperate need of company other than that of the mocking skull upon the fireplace. The anxiety attacks of the past had reared their ugly head along with the limp; once again the shoulder playing second fiddle to my psyche. I began however, taking small walks again despite my damn leg and had even taken supper with Lestrade twice. But I could not bare the look of pity on his face, knowing that he was considering the amount of grief I was holding for my 'flatmate'.

I walk back from the surgery one evening and cannot comprehend that the leaves on the trees are changing colour already. Where did the winter go? I don't recall Christmas passing, although I am sure it probably had occurred the day that Harry and Mycroft had coincided their visits and that Mrs Hudson had knocked on the door with a plate of turkey.

I am sadly getting used to walking alone, preferring to convince myself that I have seen his face in a crowd, or that it is his voice on the end of a wrong number. As I walk through the park, I am unable to shake the feeling that he has been with me this last day, his eyes following every turn and hand brushing my shoulder. My phone brings me back to more earthly things with a start. It is Mycroft; this will be the third phone call in fifteen minutes. He must be sat in the Bentley outside the flat wishing that his painful visit was done with already. God forbid he leave me to myself just this once.

I pass the Royal Albert hall; the faceless hordes queuing for the evening's performance. It is Vivaldi and the memory stabs me through the heart like no bullet ever could.

_What would you do if this was your last night on earth John?_

_Don't taunt me Sherlock you know how I would like to spend my last few hours._

_Tell me._

_I suppose it would be unremarkable to any other day we have spent together, apart from a few minor deviations of course. Take in the LSO at the Royal Albert Hall perhaps; I know how you love their Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni._

I suddenly feel the need to return to Baker Street immediately and hold his violin, feel the wood and strings against my skin, another thing I have begun in order to alleviate the immense loss. But no. Somehow this feels right for my first outing back into the real world and I pay my money and take my seat. As I go to switch of my phone, I notice yet another missed call from Mycroft as well as one from Lestrade. _They can leave me now for Christ's sake. Do they not know that I am trying to find my life._

The large conductor takes the stage with the obligatory applause followed by the first violin. She bows to the conductor and then sits awaiting the game they will play; a struggle for power with a flurry of notes. Just as the lights start to dim, there is a last minute addition to the audience a few isles back. They are disrupting the masses, but it is too dark to see anything and so I face the music and await my beautiful torture.


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, I've dragged this angst out for as long as possible. Enjoy and R + R = **

**Merry Christmas**

**JX**

**Chapter 10**

The orchestra begin their tuning; their weapons at the ready as the commotion of the late arrival dies down.

The familiar sequences of music transport me back to my time spent with him and I am lost within the days of before; bashful days of finding ourselves and mapping the other. Boundaries prodded, tested and evaluated. He would stand at the window finally at ease enough with my presence to play these pieces softly, the sorrowful notes falling about him like dead leaves. It was all I could do not to console him when he was in such a mood and I wished I had had the courage to do so, knowing now what I do about our hidden desires disguised as secrets. I wonder if he would be sitting with me now if I had taken a step towards him on those dark nights, or indeed not lost my nerve upon the kitchen floor the night after our dinner all those months ago.

The movement ends before I am ready to see it leave and the applause is offensive to my ears. The Londoners re-animate and clamber from their seats, gathering coats and pushing towards the exits all at once. They will return to the outside catching buses, tubes and taxis, a world I feel so far removed from these days.

I sit not wishing to leave just yet, the noises of life ebbing away with the crowds. I had been here countless times before with Sherlock, but I had never really _seen_ it. I would prefer to watch his expressions from the safety of the shadows surrounding our seats; the golden balconies and red velvet seating making beautiful frames for the stories that we were yet to share.

After a few minutes I give in and turn on my phone. It takes not a second for it to ring. "Mycroft. Look, I'm sorry, I just decided to…." He cuts me off.

"Never mind that John, I thought you would wish to know immediately. Around twelve hours ago a body washed up upon the shores of Peru. He's dead John. Moriarty is dead."

I don't feel anything.

"John, do you hear me?"

"Um, yes. Was it…..?"

"Murder? Most likely yes. Where are you John? I'll send a car for you."

"No it's fine, thank you Mycroft. I just need a while."

I turn off the phone and let it drop to the floor. Months ago I would have longed for this charge out of the blue, but now it is a redundant detail with no ripples from its insignificant magnitude. I feel hot all of a sudden; my hands clammy and my head light_. Oh God really? A panic attack here of all places._

"Are you alright Sir?"- comes a sweet voice from the orchestral board. When I've shielded my eyes from the stage lights, I see a beautiful redheaded girl packing away her Stradivarius alone on the vastness of the stage. I recognise her as the First Violinist introduced at the beginning.

"Sir, do you need me to call someone for you?"

"No, No. I'll be fine in a minute and then I shall be out of your way."

"Was it bad news?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The phone call, did someone give you bad news over the phone?"

"Yes, well no. I do not know anymore."

She smiles at me in concern and continuous to pack away her equipment upon the lonesome stage. When she is done, she looks over to find me still sat as before and comes to join me perching on the edge of the blackness.

"Are you sure you're okay Sir? They will be shutting the doors soon. Do you not have a pretty young lady to take you to dinner?" -she says sweetly. "Or a gentleman"- she adds quickly, looking embarrassed.

"Neither" I say trying to smile. The muscles of my face are not willing to do what I ask of them just yet.

"London can be a lonely place can't it, especially after the holidays and like. Something happened to you didn't it? Oh I am sorry, I've said too much. My mother scolds me for it."

"No, it's okay, you are right Miss. I did, quite a few months ago now lose someone close to me, although it is really time that I start to wake up I think."

"This place." – She gestures to our beautiful surroundings -"It meant something to the person you lost yes?"

"Yes, how could you tell?"

She just offers a smile in return and packs up the last of her things. "You can learn a great deal of someone just by observing them, especially those that stay behind after a performance such as this."

"My friend would have agreed with you"- I say, smiling at the memory for the first time. It takes me by surprise. "Well, seeing as I am now the only customer left this evening I had better be on my way."

"Oh, you are not the only one left. There is another gentleman a few rows back from you. Good night Sir."

I turn in my seat, struggling to see through the rows of poorly lit chairs. Sure enough there is someone left sitting immersed in the shadows a number of rows back, his lurking stance quite disturbing to me. Retrieving my stick, I make my way towards the door. Passing him I see what must have caused the commotion when he had arrived; the light crossing long, bruised trembling fingers smeared with dry blood.

I quicken my walk and hear him stand, stepping out into the isle behind me.

I do not know why I stop.

"John." – A familiar voice pained with anxiety. The stick falling from my hand as I turn to take in a face I almost don't recognise. _Although_ s_omehow, I had known it. _

"I have planned this moment in my brain over and over John, but once I saw you I was unable to say any of it." He takes a step towards me, reaching out with trembling hands. But the world goes black and I hit the floor.

"John? John?" His thin arms help me to sit upon the carpet offering me a drink from a small silver flask. I bat it away.

I grab his face instead, taking in his dishevelled features, his arms resting upon mine. He looks as though he _could_ have been dead; a large scar reaching down from his jet-black hairline littered with healed cuts. Some are not so healed. His clothes are dishevelled and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. _He must be so cold_. He watches my gaze as they land on the countless needle marks about his forearms and quickly pulls down his sleeves.

"You're…dead."- I say shakily.

"I was only half dead." –he says.

"Did you… kill him?"

"No, but I set up the game for someone else to finish it." He hangs his head in what appears to be shame. "May we go home now John? I am so very, very tired."

I call Mycroft asking him to send that car and request him to be in it, feeling unable to explain the last ten minutes over a phone line. I believe it will be the most emotion anyone will ever see pass between the Holmes brothers; Mycroft's strong hand on the younger's bony shoulder as he steadies him into the car.

Once back at the flat, Sherlock lays down the missing data for his brother with 'Anthea' taking notes upon a computer. The Detectives that had been involved in Sherlock's 'missing person's' case from the safety of London's river banks have also been gathered.

I sit in the corner with a brandy, staring at the floor. I am torn between wanting to hear the details and needing them all to leave so that I may prove to myself that he is physically here. His eyes flit over me, reading my thoughts.

The cold facts spill from his lips with no emotion. He had been 'kept' like an animal: First upon the lavish boat, then moved to a locked room once Moriarty had established his hold. After a few months had passed and Moriarty had been sure that he wouldn't stray, he was put to work; setting up a number of deals and slowly weaving a web of contacts that would eventually enable him to cross Moriarty with some very dangerous men.

The fact that his death had not physically been achieved by Sherlock himself, had apparently allowed him to 'win the game'. I did not voice my opinion that there had been no 'winners', no 'game'. As soon as the body had been reported, he had cashed in his contacts and caught the first flight home with an illegal passport. He almost had been refused the flight due to his physical appearance.

What he did not have to describe however, was how Moriarty had stood over him whilst he had been 'encouraged' to inject his older adversary, adding to the criminal's hold over the Detective. His agitation and clear beginnings of withdrawal were taking much of his energy to hide and I couldn't hold back any further, thinking nothing of our present company as I cross the floor, briefly taking his face in my hands and skimming watering eyes with a thumb under my shirt sleeve. I run fingers over the nasty looking puncture marks; some would have to be dressed and treated for infection. I turn and glance at Mycroft.

"I think that will be enough for now" – I hear the older Holmes say quietly. "We can finish this up tomorrow. I believe my brother needs his rest."

Once they are gone we sit in silence alongside each other upon the floor, our backs to the cold wall. I steal a glance at his shaking hands upon the empty whiskey glass.

"What do you need Sherlock?" – I ask him.

"Nothing" - he says without hesitation. "It is different this time. I will wait it out; the effects will be gone in a few days."

"Mycroft will want to help." – I offer.

"No." A slight jab of anger. "I can do it on my own."

"You shan't be on your own, you know that. Whatever you need."

The silence between us becomes thick and I play with the heavy glass in my own hand.

"It wouldn't have stopped"- he says quietly. "He would have kept on going until he had his wishes John. The most effective way of terminating his reign was to allow him to believe he had my contract. From inside I was able to ensure his end. Eventually. He was every bit the adversary."

"You sound like you admired him." I say angrily, getting to my feet and placing my brandy glass in the sink.

"Of course I did."- He says following.

"He was evil Sherlock."

"That does not stop him from being brilliant."

"He did unimaginable things and you become Milton in all of this? Allow me my anger, please. We believed you to be dead; you were pulled from me by those…..those thugs." _I'm losing control._

"Oh, I wasn't forced into going with him John, I chose to go"- he says with ease.

"What?" _He'd held on to me, had been forced from me!_

"I chose to go." –He turns from the counter, confused at my expression.

A tide of anger within me brakes and I take a swing at him, not knowing myself in those red seconds. He manages to duck, but we tumble to the floor as he tries to still my hands. He is silent as we struggle and eventually rolls on top of me, strength all present compared to my own efforts. Despite all he has been through, he has no difficulty in pinning my hands to the floor, hot breath combining in the small space around us.

"Are you done?" He asks breathlessly, not releasing my hands. The newest of my shoulder wounds twinges and I nod my head in shame, letting it fall back with a hard thump upon the wooden floor. We catch our breath, making no effort to move.

"He could just have easily have killed you. How could you have gambled with your life?"

"You forget John. Not to do so would have been gambling with _your_ life."

Guilt seeps in to the cracks between us, suddenly aware of every single part of my body upon which he leans. He lifts himself upon one elbow, a hand trailing down my cheek, down my neck and resting on the beginning of my shirt buttons, a few open revealing my short breaths.

"May I see it?" – He asks quietly, taking in every part of my face. There is no need for me to answer. It would mean my attention being deviated.

He removes the rest of the buttons and runs his fingers lightly across my chest until he finds the gathered ugly flesh beneath it. _New territory to map_. He studies it with his fingers, briefly watching my face from above with long eye lashes making it difficult to see his expression as he studies me.

He places his hand back upon the floor beside me and lowers himself down placing light lips over angry flesh. It is the electricity and fire that I had missed unbelievably and never thought I would have again. I shift underneath his angular frame. His kisses become harder and I lift my free hand to his neck, scrunching his shirt in my fists and feeling his chest heave unexpectedly. He begins to tremble and I feel wetness upon my skin. When I try to lift his face to see it, he relinquishes the last of his strength and collapses on to my chest. I have no idea how long we lay there, my arms tight around his thin frame as he composes himself and we catch our breath.

"I'm sorry John. I took the chance that you would survive the bullet and that you would then stand a better chance me not being there. I couldn't contact Mycroft as it risked jeopardising the entire plan. I do know what it has done to you. "

When he's ready, he lifts himself from the floor, pausing slightly as he crouches to let the first wave of withdrawal make its mark. He waves off my concern as I scramble to my feet, placing a hand upon his shoulder to steady him. Before I can ask what he needs, he silences me with _that_ look, stretching out a hand for me to help him to the sofa. I refill a whiskey glass on his request and relight a fire that has been cold for 6 months, settling in beside him with a blanket to hold the shivers at bay. He closes his eyes in exhaustion and brings his feet up, laying his head upon my lap to get warm.

I wake in the early hours of the morning when the cold starts to seep in through the walls; its icy fingers prodding exposed shoulders and toes. He is no longer under the blankets where he had fitfully drifted off and for a horrid moment I believe the whole of yesterday to be a product of the empty whiskey bottle upon the coffee table.

Following the faint sound of running water, I knock slightly upon the bathroom door. "Sherlock, are you alright?" There is no answer immediately so I press my ear up against the door. I hear movement within; muffled breaths and the unmistakable sound of wrenching. "Sherlock, can you answer me please."

"I'm fine John." – says a weak voice from the other side.

"You do not sound fine Sherlock. You have to let me in and help you, you can't go cold on your own. Let me give you something to help, please."

"Leave me here."

"You know I won't. This isn't the worst of it, let me in."

"There is no need, I have your medical bag."

"You what? Open this door or I will break it down and call your brother."

"You call my brother I will leave via this window and you shan't see me for the hours this takes. I believe that is not the desired out come? I don't want you to see this part of me John. It's an ugly, old part of me that I wish you to have no dealings with."

"I'm a Doctor Sherlock"- I plead. "I've seen it. I know."

I slide down the door with a thud, my head hitting the hard wood; the prospect of a new torture hanging over us for the next few days. Moriarty's cold fingers reaching us even from death. _Were we ever to be free from him?_

"How about a deal?" – I hear from the other side of the door. "I let you in here to put a cannula in my arm for fluids; which I may add I would be able to do myself under normal circumstances, and you promise to let me do this on my own. My way."

I rub my eyes with the palms of my hand. "Deal."

After an agonising minute, the door lock clicks open. Our large bathroom is full of steam, the shower on full power and I make him out curled up on the cold bathroom tiles. He is stripped to the waist having been sat under the water and shakes violently; ragged breaths and pain ripping through his veins like fire.

"I can't…. get warm…. John and ….my hands don't seem to be….working properly"- he stutters quietly.

I step over him and turn off the scolding shower, picking up the contents of my work bag strewn across the floor. Taking my hands underneath his arms, he stifles a groan for his joints as I lift and lean him against the tub, wrapping some of the towels about his shoulders. He watches me as I tie the tourniquet and place the line, having a little trouble in keeping him still, but otherwise with success first time. He smiles weakly as I hang the bag of glucose upon the shower curtain.

"Not my first time." I offer back.

His hand stops mine as it dips back into my bag.

"Just the fluid John. My way remember." _He believes it to be his punishment._

The following forty-eight hours somehow manage to surpass the last six months. But as I sit at the kitchen table the next morning, the sun peaks round the thick red curtains and bathes the flat in warm light. He appears at the door, freshly showered and dressed impeccably. He still leans heavily upon its sturdy frame, but has gained his strength back quicker than I could have hoped.

"So, where were we?" he says with a wink, some of his old edge shining through.

I can't help but laugh out loud at his flippancy and grab his scarf from the hook.

"How about a walk and some lunch at the Royale?"


End file.
